


Upon The Moor

by AutumnAtMidnite



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Case, Book: The Hound of the Baskervilles, Crossover, Gen, Ghosts, M/M, Romantic Friendship, Slash Goggles, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 03:44:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5442137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutumnAtMidnite/pseuds/AutumnAtMidnite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on an investigation in Dartmoor, the consequences of passing through a mysterious fog are far different than anything even Sherlock Holmes could ever have imagined. A crossover of sorts with book 'verse Hound of the Baskervilles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Upon The Moor

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written 29 October 2011, which obviously was before 'The Hounds Of Baskerville' aired. Because of that, it should be considered an AU from the episode, and is a crossover, of sorts, with book!canon. **Also, the ending might not make perfect sense unless you've read HOUN.**

***

_“...forbear from crossing the moor in those dark hours when the powers of evil are exalted.”  
\- Hound Of The Baskervilles _

 

John Watson is perturbed.

Other applicative adjectives relevant to the fix Sherlock's got them arse deep into wander along the vicinity of soggy, knackered, ravenous, sore, exasperated and possibly mildly hypothermic, since tumbling into a morass when it's 10°c and raining tends to have that effect. Those are the main gripes he can call to mind at present, though the doctor is certain there are more. Perhaps when the blood vessels in his brain begin thawing out, his thoughts will flow more freely. He may even be compelled to write a list (John Watson - His Limits - it would be entitled) and stick it to the inflated head of the world's only consulting detective.

Yup. That's what he'll do. Just as soon as he's not so... waterlogged.

Up ahead, through the dense veil of rain, an opaque mist of light breaches through that seemingly impenetrable gloom consuming the woods of gnarled, moss laden trees in which the two men have been wandering about in since sundown. Coming up to the end of the rock strewn path, they can just barely make out the silhouette of a stone house down the hill, a broad stream of smoke wafting from the chimney. The place seems to be the lonely occupant of a clearing whose boundaries are defined in a halo of mist rising up to the highest branches.

Unwelcoming a picture as this dreary homestead upon the moors may paint, John gladly receives it as a respite from the chill and isolation from the rest of humanity. Dismal a thing as it is, he cannot help but sigh in relief a the sight. Both their phones have gone dead, he hasn't seen another living soul besides Sherlock in days, and the three murderous Devonshire locals who pursued them into this God forsaken corner of the world, the doctor is pretty sure, don't count much for representations of mankind.

Tugging at Sherlock's coat sleeve, he commences forward, but his progress is hampered by his immobile friend, whose face is set in stone, the only indication he is in fact a living, breathing man and not a statue chiseled from marble is the incandescent lustre of his blue-grey eyes. A fair measure of the doctor's anger melts away at that hardened stare.

“What's wrong,” he whispers, stepping up beside his companion.

Inhaling deeply, Sherlock breaks off from his reverie. “Fog is comprised of surface level droplets of water and forms when the atmospheric conditions are cool and humid enough. It is essentially condensed water vapour, and is rather like a ground lying cumulus cloud. This,” he indicates, reaching a gloved hand out to inspect the drifting substance between thumb and forefinger. “Is not only chalky in texture, it seems to be... animated.”

“Animated? You think it's – wait. What?”

“Really, John. In which direction is the wind blowing tonight?”

The doctor smiles serenely as one is able to whilst rainwater is spilling off their eyelashes. “Pretty sure it's westerly,” he says as a fresh torrent of precipitation hits him from the indicated course.

“Exactly! Now tell me, from where is this fog emanating?”

He is on the verge of making a crude retort when he unwittingly observes that not only is this heavy brume denser, more solidified than it ought to be, it appears to be swirling like a witch's brew being agitated in the cauldron, in addition to moving _against_ the tempestuous winds. He's no scientist, but considers himself convinced this somehow defies one or more Laws of Nature.

“Right. How is that even possible?”

“I assure you John, it shouldn't be. More likely than not, we have effectively led those imbecilic miscreants off our trail, so if we double back, our chances of encountering any one of them averages at twenty-five percent, however, that is only a rough approximation. If one takes into account their familiarity with these surroundings in conjunction with the regrettable loss of our only serviceable weapon when you were dawdling in that marsh, the odds of us making it out of this,” here the detective wrinkled his nose, “vicinity, do decrease markedly.”

John purses his lips in deep contemplation. “So, what you're saying is that because this fog seems unusual to you, we're not making the five minute walk down to the cottage which, in all probability, is both very warm and has a bed. With blankets. Lots of blankets. And food. There could be food,” he adds in hopefully, stomach growling in approval at the prospect.

“This is not merely unusual, it's entirely beyond the bounds of conceivability.”

“Yes, all right, fine. But what if it's only some sort of fog indigenous to the moors? I didn't know you were a consulting detective turned meteorologist, so what could you even know about the weather, anyway?” His words were meant to sound irate, but the effect is lost amidst the chattering of his teeth.

“I happen to have written the definitive Wikipedia article on the topic, in regards to how atmospheric conditions relate to crime,” he sniffs.

“Sherlock,” he insists, not presently impressed with this accomplishment. “I fell in a bog! I'm soaked in places I never realised existed, freezing my bollocks off – though at this rate, I just might die of starvation before the hypothermia does me in. If you have any concern whatsoever for your blogger's continued existence, you are going to shut up about the fog and start moving in the direction of that cottage because that's where I intend to go and I'm not leaving you alone in this unholy nightmare of a place.” Reaching the height of his disgruntlement, John pauses, inhaling deeply while having a go at surveying the soggy landscape. “Look, we can't be far from Dartmoor prison. There could be some psychotic escaped convict running wild out here for all we know. Now, are you coming willingly or do I have to drag your bony –”

“There is no need to be so dramatic,” says the detective by way of assent. “I'm beginning to suspect,” he continues as the two cautiously make their way down the footpath , “those blog posts of yours are making your already excitable imagination more ridiculous by the day. You're starting to sound like some melodramatic nineteenth century romance writer with all this rubbish about escaped convicts.”

John responds eloquently as the situation allows. That is to say, he snorts.

As visibility becomes increasingly poor, each step is taken with slow deliberation, and though certain parties present will refuse to admit to having partaken in such a maudlin display if ever they were to be pressed on the matter, there is a hand at the doctor's elbow, grip tightening in conjunction with the thickening of the haze. Which drifts steadily upwards, eclipsing from sight all but the languidly amassing puffs. It blots out the meagre illumination from the moon, until the sky itself is obfuscated, forces Sherlock to stop and gauge their position every few metres. But a simultaneous realisation as they descend further downwards, shoes scraping on what seems to be a narrow stone bridge, halts them in tandem.

The rain has stopped.

Outside the fog's boundaries, heavy droplets can be distinctly heard battering the sodden terrain, leaving no doubt as to whether the steady downpour does persist. Somewhere. Neither man has been able to bring up this disconcerting observation, though the ghastly, sonorous howl which seems to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once and which certainly does not cause Sherlock to clutch his friend's sleeve tighter and pull him in a bit closer, prompts them to articulately broach the slightly atypical situation they've quite literally stepped into.

"A bit not good?" Sherlock inquires in his best imitation of a steady, confident voice.

"Yeah, I'd say this qualifies. You of course have a clever plan at the ready? Sherlock," he growls into the silence. "Please tell me your massive brain is occupied with devising an elaborate scheme to get us out of this mess."

"I was rather hoping your military background would provide us with a satisfactory stratagem for extricating ourselves from this minor inconvenience."

The thunderous retort of a gunshot rings out in the distance, closely followed by three more blasts in rapid succession. Before he has the opportunity to register the hastily approaching footfalls or the frenzied shouting echoing within the confines of this nebulous atmosphere, Sherlock is leaping off the side of the bridge, taking John with him as he's retained his vise-like grip on the man's arm.

From the shallow stream they've landed into in an inglorious heap, the detective wastes no time in clasping his hand around the mouth of one irate army doctor who should very much like an explanation somewhere in the locality of right bloody now. However, it quickly becomes apparent that Sherlock's finely honed senses have plucked out more from the indistinguishable sounds filling the night, when the form of a massive black hound emerges, strings of drool hanging from pendulous jowls. It saunters onto the bridge, nose high as it scents the air. The horrible creature may have gone unnoticed, save for how it glows phosphorescent. Lowering its head back onto the ground, the gigantic form all but vanishes in the whorls of cloud.

John is certain he's never seen Sherlock's iron composure so shaken, but the fleeting glimpse of fear is replaced by the man's impenetrable mask in the span of a single heartbeat. So quickly, in fact, he wonders if it was ever there at all.

"We need to get out of here," the doctor suggests, already climbing out of the icy stream and onto the mossy banks. He's managed to lose sight of his friend, but distinctly hears the click of boot heels against the bridge above, a measured, almost reluctant pace. From a fissure in the mist, he momentarily catches sight of an exaggeratedly tall, lean man, his aquiline profile and raven hair contrasting starkly with unnaturally pale skin.

The man's keen eyes scan the bridge. He is aware danger is near, but how close it actually is, John is sure he's ignorant of. He must be, or else the familiar shape of a pistol in his right hand would not be held so slackly. It's this stranger's eyes, though, that send a thrill through him. A luminous silver, they veritably slice through the murk with their brilliance, and while John can't recall ever giving his legs the conscious order to move, all the same, he's heading for the man atop the bridge, who remains heedless of the impending demise awaiting him in the form of some flea ridden mongrel.

For some inexplicable reason, John refuses to allow such a thing to happen.

The howl comes, long and low and mournful, as John reaches the bridge, and the man turns on his heel, his whispered utterance sounding startlingly like _"Watson?"_ ; though of course, it must only be John's mind playing tricks on him. God knows, he's rattled enough.

In an instant, luminescent beast bounds towards them, sure to reach them in a few strides of its tremendous legs. Seemingly unconcerned for his own fate, the tall man fires his weapon into the murk before fairly leaping atop John, knocking him backwards. He's vaguely aware of the man's wiry frame shielding him from the crushing weight of the snarling monstrosity, and of the successive gunshots penetrating through the fierce growling, until his head is spinning and his ears are ringing from the blasts in the emphatic silence.

From his recumbent position, John can hear his name being shouted frantically in a voice more anguished than worried, though it can't be Sherlock, because he's never once lost his composure, no matter how tight the spot they're jammed into, and is convinced his friend, in all probability, isn't even capable of being affected by such emotions. Be that as it may, when the doctor creaks open his eyes – and oh, how did _that_ happen when he saw his mates blown to pieces in Afghanistan without losing his nerve – he finds Sherlock kneeling over him, coat billowing in the gale that renews itself full force as the fog dissipates.

At this sight, all thoughts of his friend's uncustomary outburst instantly scatter. Mainly because the man himself is engaged in a heated one-way verbal altercation.

"... the most asinine stunt you've ever pulled and what the hell possessed you to throw yourself at that animal you absolute idiot!"

"Thought it was you, for a second."

Sherlock pales. "Yes. Well. As usual, you thought wrong," he replies, the heat gone from his words.

They pass the remainder of the way down the hillside in relative silence. John is too troubled by the night's remarkable events to arrange his thoughts in any semblance of order. The more he mulls it over, the less sense everything makes. An unnatural fog whose traces are as yet thick and palpable in his lungs, that materialises and vanishes as mysteriously as did that gigantic hound prowling the moor. And the man with those penetrating eyes like liquid smoke. He'd been in pursuit of it, that much was obvious. John would swear before a magistrate it had yelped in pain when a bullet hit its mark, and yet, no traces of blood or hair or prints in the soft, moist soil were left as physical manifestations of their misadventure. Surely, Sherlock Holmes had noticed that, but if he did so, purposely remained more uncommunicative than ever.

Upon reaching the cottage, John swings aside the gate with his last reserves of energy, allowing his friend passage while he moans incoherently in exhausted gratitude at the prospect of _warm, dry, sleep_. And possibly food. That's always high on his ranking of priorities. Along with endeavouring to get the mad genius to understand eating has its merits, though that's another matter entirely.

"Come on, John!" Sherlock calls from the well of golden light searing through the darkness from the open doorway. "They have a room for us, and have agreed to send up a plate of dinner."

A truly glorious conclusion to a nightmarish past few days whose existence John would merrily will himself to delete from his proverbial hard drive if only he'd his friends capability of doing so. He greets his new hosts enthusiastically, grinning like the idiot he's accused of being at least twice a day. The woman, a dark eyed beauty, ushers the doctor and detective inside while the man at her side introduces himself.

"I am Mr and this is Mrs Stapleton," their host declares, taking John's hand with what surely cannot be an almost wicked upturn of the lips. "Welcome to Merripit House."


End file.
